


who gives a f@#k about cards

by doomed_spectacles



Series: Spooky Omens: 13 Days of Halloween! [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Banter, Fade to Black, Flirting, Flirting on stage, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Magicians, Rivalry, Street & Stage Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: The last thing Aziraphale wanted on Halloween was to be at a casino watching an awful showy magician strut his stuff. But when he's brought on stage, instead of showing the cocky illusionist with a penchant for fire a thing or two about magic, the Amazing Mr. Fell becomes part of the show.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Spooky Omens: 13 Days of Halloween! [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978405
Comments: 29
Kudos: 111
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	who gives a f@#k about cards

**Author's Note:**

> Racket's 13 days of Halloween, day 12: Magic!
> 
> Rated M for language and referenced (offscreen) sex. 
> 
> This is just a bit of random "haha they're magicians" fun - it doesn’t particularly adhere to anything canon-wise and there's not much finesse to it. The grumpy bastard Aziraphale here is basically how I see book!Aziraphale - bitchy with a twinkle in his eye. Please note I know very little about stage magic and this hasn't gone through a beta so if there are mistakes, well, I own lots of them, it's okay. <3

“He’s a hack.”

“Don’t be rude.” Anathema swirled her brightly-colored drink and her equally bright skirts. “I didn’t know he had an installation here. I just like this bar.”

“Me too,” New piped in, sipping a margarita larger than his head. “Plus, he’s cool. I saw his act while he was in New York. It was a _wicked_ show.”

Aziraphale sighed.

Why he’d allowed them to convince him to come out this evening remained a mystery. Aziraphale sipped his drink — a froufrou concoction with an umbrella that he adamantly refused to feel ashamed of — and pouted. A giant poster with the man’s face stared down at him from the entrance to the ballroom with that awful smirk and those infernal sunglasses. It was like some sleek black version of Gatsby’s damn spectacles looking down on his audience with a wink you couldn’t see. Ridiculous.

“I have a slot token — be right back.” Anathema gracefully slipped off the barstool and through the crowds to her lucky slot machine: _The Prophecy_. An older woman’s face loomed over the lighted back of the machine with a knowing look on her face. She was wearing a stereotypical witch’s outfit and when you won over a certain amount, the lights behind her turned orange and an explosion came out of the speakers making it sound like you’d just blown her up. 

Aziraphale finished his drink and ordered another. If he had to spend the evening at a casino tiki bar on Halloween wearing a headband with a halo on it, he would need at least two drinks to make it through. The second drink would reduce the number of withering sighs he let escape by half. Newt chattered on about the weather being perfect for the time of year it is but he lost interest. Aziraphale may be a performer at heart but he was one who happily ended his shows and went right to bed after a nice cup of cocoa. He'd rather be at home with a book ignoring children ringing the doorbell than at a bar ignoring Newt.

When she returned, Anathema held three ticket stubs. Aziraphale sensed immediately that he would not like where this was going.

“You’ll never guess what I won,” she said with a mischievous grin, shoving the tickets in his face.

Oh, _bother_. He let slip his second withering sigh of the evening.

She handed the tickets to Newt and hopped back onto her seat. The grin on her face was triumphant and gorgeous. Aziraphale had a very hard time summoning ill will towards her, especially since her tarot classes helped keep The Amazing Mr. Fell’s Magic Academy afloat. She knew it, too.

“Oh yeah! Tonight’s show! These are good seats, too! Can we go? Please!” Newt’s face lit up like a kid at Christmas. Aziraphale had no idea how such an earnest man expected to make it in a town so obsessed with performance.

“You’re a skeptic, Newt. I thought you didn’t buy into magic.” Aziraphale looked pointedly at Anathema. “Or tarot.”

“I don’t! But his show has explosions and stuff, come on,” Newt said, pulling Anathema by her puffy sleeve.

She shrugged and followed.

“Explosions? Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said, fully aware of the whine that had crept into his voice. But he’d set his drink down and was reluctantly following along. The poster above the theatre entrance with a giant grinning face on it drew closer, then welcomed him into a pitch dark room. Fine. He’d survive a night with the one, the only, _Crowley_.

* * *

They were good seats. Anathema crowed as they were seated at a table next to the stage. It was one of only a handful of tables that would be visible from someone standing on stage. Aziraphale ignored her and ordered another drink.

The pamphlet for the show advertised illusions, feats of endurance, mind-reading, and Crowley’s specialty: breathing flames while standing inside what he called a “Column of Hellfire.” The design of the posters and the stage decor included flames flickering all around Crowley’s head and hair. Aziraphale spotted several fire extinguishers and a very advanced sprinkler system above his head.

“How come you don’t do fire tricks in your show, Mr. Fell?” Newt asked and if the boy hadn’t been basically a puppy attached to Anathema, the urge to slap him would’ve been much harder to resist.

“Because I can do _proper_ magic, my dear boy.”

“Oh,” he said, not sounding convinced.

“All this is theatrics, you see. There's nothing magical about starving yourself or locking yourself in a box or playing with fire.” Aziraphale tutted. “How does that prove anything except one's own commitment to pyromania?”

Anathema leaned forward, her chin on her hand. “I don’t know, seems like fire breathing proves you can do really weird stuff with your mouth.”

Crowley’s handsome face and exposed chest laughed at him from the front of the pamphlet. He had a very lean build and sharp collarbones that peeked out from the black shirt he wore unbuttoned. Aziraphale swallowed, trying to stop the blood from flowing downward while he imagined Crowley doing very interesting things with his mouth indeed. He cleared his throat.

“Traditional magic requires skill. Something hucksters like Crowley wouldn't know the first thing about-”

“Shhhh, it's starting!” Newt sat back and gazed at the stage in wonder. Aziraphale rolled his eyes but the look on Newt’s face was genuine enough to make him smile. That spark of delight was what got him started in this business after all.

The introduction to Crowley’s show was full of loud music Aziraphale didn’t recognize. He preferred a more _understated_ approach to background music. Classical strings and a backing piano, preferably live, that enhanced his performance rather than overpowered it. If he was feeling adventurous, he might entertain the notion of adding some recorded bebop. Crowley’s backing music was electronic beats and loud guitars that practically attacked the eardrums. Aziraphale winced in discomfort and tried valiantly to smother another sigh.

When Crowley waltzed on stage, all his sighs disappeared.

The one and only Crowley — his first name was never used publicly, though Aziraphale had heard through the grapevine that it was Anthony, a perfectly serviceable name and one far more enticing than _Crowley_ — was wearing trousers so tight Aziraphale wondered if they weren’t painted on. His black shirt was unbuttoned completely, exposing most of his chest and a tantalizing bit of red hair leading down to areas Aziraphale discovered he had a keen interest in. His long red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail that barely contained its voluptuous waves. The entire ensemble was completed with his signature snake face tattoo and sunglasses. 

He was mesmerizing and infuriating as he prowled about the stage, growling his introduction to the audience like he knew exactly what they were paying attention to and it wasn’t his words. Aziraphale knew he was playing right into Crowley’s hands by getting distracted by his looks but he found it increasingly hard to give a damn.

Anathema punched him on the arm and gave him a knowing smile, which he brushed off.

“Still think he’s a hack?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “An attractive charlatan is still a charlatan, my dear.”

Anathema pursed her lips but the twinkle in her eye remained.

The show started with fairly basic routines Aziraphale could’ve performed in his sleep. There was absolutely nothing new about Crowley’s show, other than the fires burning on both sides of the stage. It made a sheen of sweat appear on Crowley’s chest that made it somewhat more difficult to focus on his tricks, however.

Midway through the show, Crowley shifted into the mind-reading portion. He asked the audience inane questions that he had a statistically high likelihood of guessing the answers to and then provided those answers. It was the sort of basic manipulation of psychology that wasn’t necessarily easy to pull off but required a certain — _charm_. Crowley had it in droves.

“For the next few tricks, I’m going to require a volunteer,” Crowley said into his wireless microphone. He sauntered offstage and wandered among the tables at the front of the theatre as hands shot up and drunk tourists shouted “pick me!”

Newt’s hand shot up immediately.

Aziraphale ducked his head as Crowley weaved through the tables nearby, putting on a show of deliberating as if his selection was as important as choosing a juror. Just when Aziraphale thought they were safe, Crowley doubled back and paused right in front of them. His nipple was exactly at Aziraphale’s eye level.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m having a major stroke of luck tonight,” Crowley said, waving his arms to draw attention to their table. Anathema and Newt were gazing at him, starstruck.

Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to leave his body behind while he floated away to oblivion.

“It seems I’ve been _blessed_ ,” Crowley said, pointing to the tacky plastic halo on Aziraphale’s head. “There’s an angel in the crowd this evening.” He leered at Aziraphale, his voice dripping with a showman’s exaggerated charm.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, my dear.”

“Come on, Mr. Fell!” Newt shouted, clapping his hands. There was no trace of indignation or jealousy that he wasn’t the one being singled out. Aziraphale hoped, sincerely, that Newt would never change.

The sneer on Crowley’s face changed. “Mr. Fell? Ohhhhhhh, ladies and gentlemen,” he purred, “we are indeed blessed with a special guest tonight.”

Aziraphale scoffed.

Whirling around to face the audience, Crowley spread his arms wide. The spotlight was bright on his bare chest and shiny red hair. “Ladies and gentlemen!” He shouted, working the crowd, knowing they were primed to agree with whatever he said. “My _angel_ doesn’t want to come on stage with me.”

“Oooooohhhhh,” the audience cooed in sympathy.

Crowley pouted his lips. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He wanted to smack the sneer right off his face. Or snog him senseless. Possibly both.

“You see my lovelies,” Crowley said in a low breathy voice, “the Amazing Mr. Fell is a _professor_.” He emphasized the title, letting his words drip with disdain. Crowley paused, hushing the crowd. They lapped up his words like a cat with cream.

Suddenly he shouted, his voice loud, “And you know what they say about those who can’t do!”

He whirled around to face Aziraphale, triumphant. “They teach!”

Applause and raucous laughter rang in his ears. Aziraphale stood. He wasn’t quite as tall as Crowley but he tipped up his chin and almost made up the difference. He was close enough to look through those blasted lenses into Crowley’s eyes. _Fine_. He’d show Crowley a thing or two about proper magic. With several overpriced tiki-inspired cocktails pulsing through his veins, Aziraphale put on a smirk of his own and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got, my dear boy.”

And then, somehow, he was on stage. 

Aziraphale’s eyes adjusted to the lights and he found his bearings with the ease of a seasoned performer. This wasn’t _his_ stage but it was _a_ stage. To his left, a giant metal cage dominated the space. Center stage was empty, allowing for a decent-sized playing area and access to any props brought out by assistants. The backing was a dizzying weave of reds and oranges made to look like undulating flames. Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t face it for too long or he risked the evening’s drinks making an unfortunate appearance. He felt confident he could command this stage, if only Crowley would stop turning his back and addressing the audience, giving Aziraphale a full view of his delectable rear end.

He allowed Crowley to lead him through several basic coin tricks, following along and evaluating the man’s skills. While he did it, Crowley watched him, a knowing smile on his face. He was a star student showing off for the master. A peacock strutting his stuff on a stage that also happened to be on fire.

Crowley’s assistants set out a desk with an array of props. On it was a stuffed rabbit, a top hat, a crystal ball, a pair of handcuffs, and a deck of cards. Aziraphale tried desperately to ignore the handcuffs.

“Take a card, angel,” Crowley said, holding out the deck.

Aziraphale did.

Crowley nodded for him to replace it in the deck. He did as he was told. The audience was hushed, waiting to see how the show, now a two-man performance, played out. 

Instead of continuing with a card trick, Crowley launched into a rapid-fire version of his questioning bit. He positioned Aziraphale center stage, then prowled around him like a cat stalking its prey. Crowley played to the audience, winking and hemming and hawing where appropriate. Aziraphale answered his questions, each time trying to stump the infuriating man, but Crowley was one step ahead of him each time.

Finally, he snapped.

“I hardly think asking questions counts as magic,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s lips curled up into a new smirk — one Aziraphale hadn’t yet seen. It wasn’t a posturing grin or a stage smile, this was something genuine. He opened his mouth slightly as if unsure what he’d say next — and wouldn’t that be something? His taunting lips parted and his tongue peeked out to wet them. 

He said, his voice a dark stage whisper that sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine, “Oh but it _is_ , angel, it really is. Asking questions is what separates us from the beasts.” On the word beasts, Crowley clicked his teeth together in a faux bite. 

Oh — now _that_ was simply uncalled for, Aziraphale thought, keeping his lips firmly in a line. Aziraphale had never encouraged his students to openly flirt with volunteers — one ran the risk of distraction. For a magician, distraction led to disaster. Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of his waist. He’d forgotten about the audience entirely.

Crowley had wandered off to introduce and prep a fire trick he had Aziraphale assist him with. Aziraphale stood to the side while Crowley conjured fire from his fingertips then blew it out casually.

“No good, angel?” Crowley said, playing for sympathy. The audience cooed, giving him exactly what he wanted.

Aziraphale remained impassive while Crowley cycled through several more minor fire tricks. Finally, he returned to the card deck sitting on the prop table.

“Is this your card?”

It was.

“No,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley tipped his sunglasses down and met his eyes over the frames. His eyes were a deep golden brown with thick, long eyelashes. They were expressive, giving away every single emotion Crowley was feeling. His eyes lit up with the same exhilarating feeling Aziraphale felt when he stepped onstage. Crowley’s eyes showed that he was as excited about the dance they were ad-libbing as he was. Crowley’s body was turned to the audience and the rest of his face was impassive but his eyes — _heaven_ , his eyes! No wonder he covered them. Crowley wouldn’t be able to pull off a trick in front of primary school kids with those eyes. They gave everything away.

Aziraphale straightened, clearing his throat. Whatever game this was, two could play. “Better luck next time, my dear boy. Why don't I pick another?”

The audience sniggered. When Crowley held up a finger, they hushed immediately.

Crowley tossed the deck of cards in the air. As they rained down, he said, “Who gives a fuck about cards anyway?”

The audience went wild.

Offstage, Aziraphale spotted producers speaking into headsets with worried frowns on their faces as Crowley effectively shredded the script. He met Crowley’s mocking gaze and for the first time since he’d entered the casino that night, let out a genuine giggle. To his surprise, Crowley threw back his head and laughed with him, persona momentarily forgotten.

The next tricks Aziraphale assisted Crowley with went by in a blur. He was vaguely conscious of the fact that he’d been onstage far longer than a typical audience volunteer. Crowley was sharing the stage with him and, based on the relaxed way he smiled and placed little touches on his hands and arms and hips, he was enjoying himself. Aziraphale found himself relaxing too, playing the Abbott to his rather suave Costello. 

Aziraphale assisted Crowley in a sawed-in-half trick, much to the chagrin of the assistant Aziraphale spotted waiting in the wings. As they finished, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and raised it.

“Please give a round of applause to the angel who has blessed my stage tonight!”

Aziraphale beamed as the audience clapped and yelled. Before he let go of his hand, Crowley kissed it delicately, like a knight before a maiden. He knew it was a play to the audience, but Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat anyway.

He made it to the metal cage, then turned. “Just a moment, my dear,” Aziraphale said, “before I sit down.”

Crowley faced him. He had no idea what Aziraphale was about to do. Crowley sauntered across the stage but this time there was a tension between them. Like he was being pulled by an invisible wire to Aziraphale and had to hold himself back.

He stood over Aziraphale with his arm bracing himself on the metal cage at the side of the stage. He leaned over Aziraphale and bared his teeth. Crowley’s stage makeup was glistening on his skin as he sweated under the hot lights. Aziraphale purposefully looked him up and down, taking time to drink in the expanse of chest exposed by his shirt and the tight leather trousers, all the way down to the snakeskin shoes pointed at him. He pursed his lips and looked away, prim but making a show of it.

“You see my dear,” he said, moving deliberately closer, “I've found something.”

Crowley didn't back up. He scanned Aziraphale's face for a hint of what was happening on his stage but couldn't find a clue.

Aziraphale smiled a brilliant smile directly into his face. He met Crowley’s eyes through his lenses, reached out, and plucked a card very slowly from the waistband of Crowley's trousers.

“ _This_ is my card.”

He held it between two fingers, then kissed it lightly. Aziraphale smirked at the astonished expression on Crowley's face. He tossed the card aside and exited, stage left.

* * *

Aziraphale woke up and immediately wished he hadn't.

The ceiling was unfamiliar and it seemed to be writhing in a way that unsettled him. He didn’t move. Aziraphale took a deep breath and immediately regretted that, too. Sex. He smelled sex and a cologne that wasn’t his, and the laundry soap used on a bed that wasn’t his. _Well then._

“Oh,” he said when he was able to move, “oh dear.”

A set of impossibly long and slender limbs were wrapped around him like a snake about to have supper. He’d fallen asleep on his side with his arm crammed underneath his body, causing a tingle to run down his fingers. The body behind and on top of him was incredibly warm and completely naked. As was he.

Bother.

He shifted, moving an arm so he could sit up, and any lingering doubts about whose bed he occupied were whisked away. Crowley’s hair was a chaotic mass around his head, like a messy red halo. When he moved away, Crowley curled in on himself and let out a snort. Aziraphale would’ve found it even more endearing if his head didn’t feel like it was stuck between two vice grips. He sat up.

The room was tilting but it hadn’t gone all the way around, so he considered that a good sign. Crowley’s flat — he assumed it was Crowley’s flat because _look_ at the place, it was “I am cool” personified in an apartment — was all modern lines and hard edges and no color. The floor was a painted concrete that chilled his feet when they touched the floor. The walls were the same hard unwelcoming material and the ceiling was painted black. When the room stopped moving in his vision, Aziraphale saw through the glass bedroom door to an office of some sort. In it was a golden chair that looked like it belonged on stage at one of Crowley’s shows. Or in a pornographic film. Or both.

Aziraphale swallowed past the film coating the inside of his mouth and throat. Next to him, Crowley stirred.

“Well,” Crowley said, sticking out his tongue like something had died in his throat then been resurrected and was trying to escape, “that went down like a lead balloon.”

“What does that even mean?” Aziraphale grumbled. He cast about for his clothes, which were scattered about the room along with what little Crowley had been wearing and an assortment of stage props. Had they used any of them last night? Good Lord. He had no idea. He squeezed his eyes shut but it didn’t help the drumming that had started up in his skull.

Crowley groaned, whether in genuine annoyance or because his head hurt as badly as Aziraphale’s, it was difficult to say. “You. Me. Lead balloon,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Where are my socks?” Aziraphale managed to find his underpants and trousers on the floor, plus his bowtie and shirt. No socks.

“Who gives a _fuck_ about socks?” was the muffled reply from the bed. Crowley had sunk back into a ridiculous pile of pillows. His red hair peeked out from in between two black cushions that had probably cost a fortune.

“I do,” Aziraphale replied. “Obviously.”

From the recesses of the pillows, Crowley repeated in a mocking tone, “Obviously.”

“Do you remember-” Aziraphale started to stand, but the floor lurched out from under him and he abandoned the attempt. He put his head between his knees, which was as far as he'd managed to get while pulling up his trousers. “Do you remember what we-”

The sound Crowley made was like air escaping from a tired balloon.

“What we did- oh, bother. I can't cope when I’m this hungover.”

“Just have a lie-down, angel,” Crowley said, re-emerging from the pillows, “and maybe it’ll come back to you.”

Crowley tossed aside the sheets and arranged himself on the bed like a feast on display. Completely starkers, he smirked at Aziraphale and stretched. He wasn't hard but the _possibility_ was there. Crowley ran a hand over his abdomen and left it just above his pubic hair. Not touching himself, exactly, but not far from it. When Aziraphale was able to drag his eyes to the man's face, he flushed at the open smile.

“You fucked my show, angel.”

“Yes. I did, didn't I?”

“And then you… well,” Crowley licked his lips and it clearly wasn’t because he was parched, “that part’s coming back to me now that you mention it.”

Aziraphale swallowed. The sick feeling in his gut was still there but something else was rising to the surface as well.

“Come back to bed, love,” Crowley said.

“You’re not a magician at all. You’re a _tempter_ , looking to lead me astray,” Aziraphale replied, looking away before he lost his ability to. “I have class in-” he found Crowley’s watch on the floor several feet away from the bed along with a red silk scarf with a knot in it and Crowley’s sunglasses. “Two hours.”

“Suit yourself.” Crowley strolled out of the bedroom, still nude. He had little dimples on the back of his hips that Aziraphale wanted to dig his thumbs into. Crowley walked casually across his flat, ignoring the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the city below. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale called out. He gathered what he could find of his clothes and attempted to put himself together. He managed underpants, trousers, and shirt, but his vision was swimming too much to tie a bowtie. Aziraphale tucked his shoes under his arms and followed Crowley into his expensive-looking kitchen. He abandoned the socks, wherever they were.

Crowley had obtained a pair of black silk briefs from somewhere. He handed Aziraphale a glass of water and took a long drink from his own. While the coffee machine burbled in the background, they rehydrated in a comfortable, if charged, silence.

“What class do you have?” Crowley asked. He jumped up on the surface of the kitchen island, legs spread just enough to make it look deliberate.

“Card Magic. It’s the advanced class today.” Aziraphale set down his glass. Crowley’s eyes were a burning gold in the morning sunlight. “Card tricks are fundamental. Foundational. As you know.” Aziraphale kept talking but he was inching closer to Crowley, drawn in by those eyes and teasing smirk.

“You could always stay, angel,” he said. Crowley lifted his eyebrows in a show of innocence. “Make it up to me for crashing my show.” He pulled Aziraphale closer, wrapping those long bare legs around his middle.

“I did no such thing!”

Crowley didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he kissed his way down Aziraphale’s neck to his open shirt collar.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. He grabbed Crowley’s backside and lifted him off the island. Crowley grinned and held on tight as Aziraphale carried him back to the bedroom. “It is as you said, my dear. Who gives a _fuck_ about cards anyway?”

**Author's Note:**

> (Aziraphale being secretly good at card tricks was obviously done a million times better and with emotional resonance in Shotgun Wedding, which I'm assuming everyone is already reading and if you aren't, drop everything, my goodness, what are you even doing.)


End file.
